


These Are a Few of Your Favorite Things

by prettyasadiagram



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Getting Together, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-30
Updated: 2013-08-30
Packaged: 2017-12-25 02:52:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/947743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prettyasadiagram/pseuds/prettyasadiagram
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phil has loved Clint for two years and seven months and three weeks with a quiet steadiness ever since Clint brought him churros from Pier 39 and the file of top-secret information that had been stolen from a lab in San Francisco. </p><p>(Working title: five times I was a terrible person, and one time I wasn't so bad.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	These Are a Few of Your Favorite Things

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thatdamneddame](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatdamneddame/gifts).



> thatdamneddame is too good for me. she writes me kid fic for my birthday like the shining star that she is, and what do I do? I write her this. Be grateful it doesn’t contain a variation of the phrase “cock swelled up like a bruise” or boy pussy. And you say I never do anything nice for you. 
> 
> Any mistakes are my own, feel free to point them out. Let me know if I need to tag for anything.
> 
> Hope you can figure out what ties them all together, babe. I really tried, but I drew the line at epithets. Happy birthday!

1\. 

For the first five years of his career at SHIELD, Phil keeps a very clear distinction between work and his personal life. As in, he works six in the morning to ten at night and mostly sleeps in a spare room at HQ.

He’s satisfied with this until Fury buys him a cactus and says if it isn’t still living in six months Phil will have to use all his vacation time in one go. Five years of unused and rollover vacation time adds up to two months, one week, and three days. 

(SHIELD has a very generous PTO plan. It attracts the brightest recruits who don’t care _why_ the vacation time is so nice they just want to serve their country, as well as the dumbest recruits who don’t remember that if something is too good to be true, it’s probably because they’ll never have time to actually _use_ said vacation days.)

In the end, Phil caves and acquires an apartment in the West Village near a coffee shop that serves him extra strong coffee in eclectic, mismatched mugs and close to this small bakery with three tables for two that does amazing blondies and better rosemary rolls. 

He’s come to love the space and the natural light and the fact that the walls are not made of concrete. It only took three months for him to adjust to a normal sleeping schedule. 

But really, the best part about his apartment, aside from the fact that it’s his and no one can see that he can barely keep an African violet alive for more than a month—the cactus, however, is in his office, proudly displayed and just about to flower, take that Nick Fury—is that only a select few in SHIELD know of its existence. As far as he knows, only Fury, Maria, and Janice in HR know where he goes on his rare days off. 

(He’s heard rumors that the junior agents think he retreats to the tunnels under SHIELD HQ and hangs upside to sleep like a modern day Dracula. He supposes it’s better than the one that claims he bathes in the blood of failed agents.)

 

The whole point of having an offsite apartment is that _no one will bother him_ , but he supposes it’s unreasonable to expect the rest of the city to appreciate the rarity of his Saturday night in. 

Which, of course, is why it’s three in the morning and there is someone singing terribly off tempo and out of key in the street. He stares at the ceiling through a particularly cruel rendition of “I Can Show You the World” and grits his teeth when the voice breaks into “Jolene.” 

Someone a couple floors up yells out into the street that they’re calling the police. It kind of sounds like Ms. Henderson with the three Chihuahuas that Phil steers clear of at all costs (they bite ankles but pee when denied affection). 

There’s blessed silence for a few minutes, and then a mournful “Am I your fire?” rises over the low-level traffic noises, and Phil has had enough. It is now three fifteen and he actually is licensed to kill.

Leaning out his window, mouth open to yell, he sees Clint leaning against a streetlamp with his eyes closed, urgently asking if he—presumably Clint—is his—presumably Phil’s—one desire, and Phil can honestly say that this is the first time he has ever applied the word “gobsmacked” to himself. 

It takes until Clint’s voice is cracking as he belts out that he _wants it that way_ for Phil to question how Clint even found this place. And then he sees Natasha leaning against a bike rack, smirking up at him, and it all makes sense. 

 

2\. 

In the Academy, agents are trained to never write anything down. Make up a pneumonic; draft a fucking jingle; just don’t leave papers with secrets lying around. This is why Phil can find the safe house in Köln only if he hums “These Boots Are Made for Walking” under his breath and he only remembers to buy cereal if he uses a cart(e) and not a basket (cereal-avocados-rice-toast-eggs).

(So Phil eats an unhealthy amount of avocado. Don’t judge. He can make guacamole _and_ chocolate pudding _and_ brownies. It’s versatile and Phil likes for his groceries to multifaceted.)

It’s all very ridiculous and Clint never lets him live it down. 

(Apparently growing up in the circus means you already know how to run silently and avoid paper trails and can thus skip the tedium of the Academy. Phil often calls bullshit. Clint often laughs as he slips away and hides in air vents or on rooftops.) 

All this to say, when he comes into the office one normal Tuesday morning to find a note from Clint crumpled up in his still-dirty coffee mug, Phil is not impressed.

_Day Thirty-Three in Avenger’s Tower. Thor broke another load-bearing wall and Tony threw cheez-its at him because Pepper has hidden all the sharp objects. No one has slept in days. Bruce is constantly pale green and I don’t think it’s the sushi from that place around the corner. What’s the punishment like these days for friendly fire?_

Doubly so when it turns out that this it was scrawled on the top half of a 409-K form that Clint was supposed to fill out a week ago.

_Clint—you are not a hostage. This is not a hostage situation. You are also not that grumpy cat. Fill out this damn form before I make you._

Phil instructs one of the agents wandering around to take this straight to Clint Barton, post haste. The poor kid nods and trips as he walks away. Phil almost feels bad.

 

He finds another note that afternoon in his office refrigerator explaining in very explicit detail exactly how Clint would like Phil to “make him” fill out the form. Phil definitely does not blush. 

(He’s also idly curious about how the note got into the fridge at all. Phil hasn’t left his office except for a quick chat with Darcy, who bribed him with jelly donuts to get Friday off, and he has booby-trapped the air vents with Furbies.)

 

Things escalate dramatically—as they often do when Clint is involved in any way—as the week continues, until it ends in near death when Maria finds a note pinned to the back of her jacket. She hunts Clint down and almost makes him eat it, which should not amuse Phil as much as it does. 

(In Maria’s defense, she probably wasn’t expecting to find definitely not safe for work limericks and inappropriately accurate drawings on her personal stationary on her back.)

 

Phil doesn’t miss the notes. He really doesn’t. Epistolary romances are so eighteenth century.

 

3\. 

Phil walks into the Avengers Tower and is greeted by small gray feathers floating in the air and a thin layer of larger feathers covering the floor. The living room is empty and Phil can’t decide which would the better option: if they actually tried to tar and feather Tony or if somehow, living birds were acquired for whatever (hopefully?) science-related reasons that Tony and Bruce had come up with this week. 

(Last week they had asked for a camel, ten vacuum flasks of liquid nitrogen, three bales of hay, and an egregious amount of Himalayan pink salt. They were denied with extreme prejudice.).

He finds everyone on the roof and the answer is more disheartening than Phil imagined. 

 

Clint is standing at the edge of the roof, large gray wings spreading out and flexing from his shoulder blades like he’s ready to jump. He’s clutching a bow and arrow like he thinks he’s the next Cupid, or, more likely, he’s pretending to be Castiel, ready to do something stupid.

Tony has a clipboard and a whistle; Steve is clearly trying to reason with Clint; Bruce appears to be meditating; and Thor is actually wringing his hands. 

Phil isn’t even surprised. He recognizes that bow in Clint’s hand. It’s the one that Thor had specifically said not to touch. 

A loud whirring starts up and Phil turns to see Natasha, cross-legged in front of an outlet, making wine slushies. She raises an eyebrow in his direction and shrugs. 

Phil walks over to the edge, ignoring Tony’s cry of “Agent!”, and stands next to Clint. “So. Cupid?”

Behind them, Thor starts to sputter, “There is no fat baby god—” and Clint nods patiently, like he’s heard this before, says “Yes, yes. I’d be Baldur or whoever. I got it.” 

Phil struggles not to laugh, but honestly, Thor looks so put out. 

The steady whoosh of the blender and the constant muttering of Thor is suddenly drowned out by the whine of engines and ego as Tony comes blasting up from the balcony below. He raises the faceplate. “OK Barton. Ready when you are.”

Pretty sure that this will end in manly tears and YouTube notoriety, Phil takes three steps back and mentally starts drafting his memo to Fury about how exactly two members of the Avengers were taken out of commission.

Natasha hands him a slushie and he hopes for the best.

 

(The video of Tony panicking and losing his balance midair as Clint leaps toward him, wings fully spread, makes the rounds at SHIELD until Tony throws a massive hissy fit and gets it taken down. Phil still watches a copy when he’s feeling stressed.)

 

4.

Debriefing after the roomba and citywide blackout incident is a success in that everyone shows up and an utter failure in that pretty much nothing is accomplished. 

Fifteen minutes of useless shouting and side conversations, Fury dismisses everyone with the instruction to come back tomorrow morning prepared to actually get down to business.

(Fury also makes the unfortunate decision to specifically use the phrase “get down to business,” which makes Tony start humming and Clint start singing, which in turn makes Phil sigh heavily and pretend he doesn’t know any of them.)

As they spill into the hallway, Clint turns to Phil and mutters, “Speaking of business, remember that time at the Four Seasons?”

Phil pauses, face still. “Clint—”

With hearing like a freaking barn owl and all the subtly of a sledgehammer, Tony slings an arm around Clint’s shoulders and grins. “Story time requires drinks, and lucky for us, I know this place right around the corner. Best gin and tonics I’ve ever had.”

“Because those are so hard to make,” Bruce deadpans

Tony scowls. “You’d be surprised.”

 

The bar is everything Phil hates: it’s noisy; the music is all brassy beats and Auto-Tune; some terrible person chose oak paneling; and, because it’s Tony Stark, there is automatically a VIP lounge with an actual velvet rope. 

Phil feels like a babysitter. Too bad SHIELD doesn’t issue Kid Kits. Clint, of course, is loving every second of it. 

Tony brings up the story Clint almost started in the hallway, and though Phil tries to distract him with mint juleps, Clint is undeterred. 

With his eyes on Phil, Clint smiles and launches into his story. “It was late December, back in sixty-three—” Phil looks around at the group. Tony appears to have tuned out already; Thor is rapt; and Bruce looks suspicious. 

“As I remember, what a night. You know, I didn't even know her name, but I was never gonna be the same.”

At _her_ , Tony perks up. “I thought this story about you and Agent? Tell me this is actually a story about you and Natasha, _please_.”

From further down, Natasha snorts into her drink. 

“Don’t encourage him, please.” Phil despairs.

Bruce grins. “Did you get a funny feelin’ when she walked in the room?”

Clint smiles broadly. “You know what, I really did. I felt a rush like a rollin’ ball of thunder—”

With a sigh of irritation, Tony finally notices what Clint is doing. “Oh ha, ha. Four Seasons. Was she ‘spinning your head around and taking your body under’?”

“Would you prefer to hear about the twenty-first night of September? Phil has a _great_ story, about love changing the minds of pretenders. Heart-warming, really, involves clouds—”

The only person surprised when Clint falls off the couch and turns to Natasha with a look of betrayal on his face is Steve, and that’s because there’s a baseball game on and he learned months ago to ignore them all when they were in public.

 

5\. 

Phil hears the distinctive shuffle-glide-strut of Tony’s walk in the hallway and stares extra hard at the report in his hand, pretending that he can focus on more than just the steady beeping of the heart monitor in the corner.

Judging by the amused huff from Tony, he can only assume that it’s not working. 

When he looks up, finally, he sees Tony raising a questioning eyebrow at the giant stuffed bear in the corner—the one Thor had brought the night Clint was admitted to the hospital. The bear is purple and bedazzled for some reason; Thor had said it matched Clint’s uniform. Phil had smiled and set it in the corner and vowed to hide it somewhere Clint would least expect it. 

There’s an awkward moment after Tony sets a tiny robot on the floor and it whirs sadly to life, pokes at Phil’s shoes, and then retreats to underneath the bed. Phil stares at it warily, almost concerned that it might interfere with the equipment in the room, but he knows Tony. And Tony, for all his obnoxious exterior, is a marshmallow underneath. 

So Phil nods at the other empty chair in the room and is content to ignore Tony until he breaks the silence and asks, “So how did you and Barton meet?”

Phil taps his pen and debates which story to tell this time. He told Steve that he and Phil had met at the circus where Clint was the bearded lady who was also an expert marksman. He told Bruce they had met in a Target when Phil had been tasked with bringing Clint in. (He said he had caught Clint carrying a basket full of cucumbers, hooded batman towels, and a pair of pliers. Bruce looked unconvinced.)

In the end, Phil goes with a classic. A donkey show in Tijuana. 

_Fury had sent him across the border to find a marksman, supposedly the best in the States and currently on the run. From the file, Phil knew the Barton didn’t trust easy and would probably stab Phil as soon as look at him. He knew that Clint Barton was many things: an expert with a bow and arrow, in possession of an excellent poker face, and also entirely unsubtle._

_When word came down that Barton was in Tijuana, looking for “entertainment,” Phil was not impressed._

_He found the entrance in some back alley, and the smell and the dust and the continuing cheering of the crowd was overwhelming. He spotted Clint across the room; he wore a red cowboy hat and matching boots, and Phil was surprised that he wasn’t wearing chaps. He stood out like he wanted to be caught._

_A man stepped onto the platform in the middle of the room and whistled for silence. He said, Ladies and Gentlemen—”_

Tony scowls and interrupts. “You’re making this up.”

“Am I?” Phil stares placidly. 

The sad thing is that Tony clearly thinks he can stare Phil down. For all that Tony is Iron Man and has faced down Loki with a drink in his hand, Phil has survived seven years of working for SHIELD, five years of training new recruits, three sexual harassment seminars led by Fury, and two years of a relationship with Clint Barton. Tony is ill equipped for this particular battle.

In the end, Phil is victorious and Clint has the kindness to wait until Tony leaves before he ruins Phil’s story. He wheezes a laugh. “You’re such a fucking liar.” 

Phil just smiles. 

 

+1.

Phil hates spiders and loves blue icing that stains his tongue, religiously tapes _Long Island Medium_ and hates art museums. He is surly before his morning coffee and he love Saturday afternoon naps on the couch with Clint. 

Honestly, he loves a lot about Clint. Has loved him for two years and seven months and three weeks with a quiet steadiness ever since Clint brought him churros from Pier 39 and the file of top-secret information that had been stolen from a lab in San Francisco.

The cold left side of the bed and the clanking in the kitchen at 8 A.M. on a Sunday makes him question his own judgment. He would sell one of Clint’s kidneys for silence and a lazy morning with half-asleep kisses. 

But, as the noise increases, Phil can tell that it’s simply not to be. 

 

Stumbling into the kitchen, Phil slowly realizes that something has exploded all over the cabinets. Probably flour.

“Did you know that bacon grease splatters?” Clint is looking a little manic. 

(He’s also only wearing an apron and a pair of boxers that Phil could have sworn he’d thrown out last month; that hole on the left check looks familiar. 

On a side note, Phil didn’t even know they had an apron in the apartment.)

“Hence the apron?” Phil asks, leaning heavily on the doorframe and wishing desperately that Clint knew how to work the French press without breaking it. 

Clint nods emphatically. “Hence the apron.”

 

While Phil blearily makes coffee, Clint goes back to poking at stuff on the stovetop and sneaking glances at Phil over his shoulder.

Coffee mug firmly in hand, Phil takes a bracing sip and prepares to face the damage to the kitchen. It’s not _that_ bad. Just flour everywhere, what looks like jam on the ceiling, and what might be milk curdling on the counter. Phil is a little impressed though; his three-year-old niece is about this messy.

“So….” Phil starts, eyeing Clint warily. “Did Natasha insult your kitchen prowess again?”

Clint scowls. “Fuck you; I have the kitchen skills of a god.” Phil pointedly does not point out that Thor exploded an oven last month. “No, it’s just—” he shoves a plate of misshapen pancakes and bacon at Phil and mutters, “Happy Birthday.”

Phil chokes on his coffee. Clint looks a tiny bit appeased and then delighted when he realizes—“Did you actually forget your own birthday?”

Over Phil’s protests that _Of course he didn’t forget, the coffee just hasn’t kicked in yet, Clint—what are you doing?_ Clint calls Natasha and cackles, and Phil has a bad feeling about this.

 

When the Avengers pile into the apartment four hours later, armed with a _My Little Pony_ cake and pink glittery party hats, he only has Clint to blame.

**Author's Note:**

> Please do not repost this work in its entirety or share this work on third-party websites such as Goodreads.


End file.
